


Timeline Overhaul

by miikkaa_xx



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Post Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:23:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/miikkaa_xx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series. Hiruma’s ambitious. (Or: how Saikyoudai University became the number one team in the university league and then some.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timeline Overhaul

**Author's Note:**

> gift!fic for lovely [Meg](http://megavox.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **warnings** : basically a genfic till the last 3K; swearing, football, guns, and sex. unbeta'd - feel free to point out any mistakes in prose/characterisation. :)

-

Two weeks before they go to the World Football Juniors, Musashi tells them calmly in front of Deimon High: ‘I’m not applying to any colleges.’

Hiruma’s mouth is uncharacteristically smoothed into a firm line of disappointment. Kurita’s eyes are wide and he’s going to cry any time now, Hiruma knows. So, he jabs the end of his SIG Sauer P220 into the fatty’s side to stifle him and cackles, ‘and what about football, old man?’

Musashi’s face crumples into amusement, ‘knew you wouldn’t let it go. Does Takekura Construction Babels sound alright?’

Kurita wipes at his face with his fists, sniffling quietly. ‘so we’ll be against each other? Me ‘n Hiruma against you?’

Hiruma makes a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, ‘no, there will be three teams.’ Even Musashi seems surprised.

‘Not applying to Enma University?’ he asks, and Kurita is staring too. It takes a moment of silence before Kurita is smiling, a bit uncertainly but his eyes are dry and he’s standing straighter than before.

‘Oh,’ he says, pounding a fist against an open palm, ‘we’ll be like the Three Kingdoms fighting for the center. Wei, Shu, and Wu.’

‘Didn’t they all lose?’ remarks Musashi, but Hiruma intervenes before Kurita’s face falls.

‘Shut the fuck up and get to the Rice Bowl,’ he says and he’s grinning, replacing the SIG Sauer with a M4 A1 to shoot a barrage of celebration bullets over their heads.

-

One week before the World Football Juniors, Mamori apologizes for being late in meeting Hiruma: ‘I got distracted by university applications, y’know?’ Her hair is a mess and her face flushed from running. Hiruma doesn’t reply – continuing to type out the various strategies to fit with certain rosters. Out of habit, he adds a column that says ‘percent chance of success’ but leaves it blank.

‘I’m going to apply to Saikyoudai,’ she rambles as she organizes her papers on the table, ‘it’s a good one for the degree I want. How about you?’ Her hands pause, her face looking at him expectantly.

Hiruma pauses, eyes flicking up to meet hers. He shrugs noncommittally. She snorts in exasperation. ‘You’re going to blackmail your way into Tokyo U, aren’t you?’

This time, he grins, all sharp teeth and glittering eyes. ‘Of course.’

By which he means he has no fucking clue.

-

The World Football Juniors comes to a tie, but they volunteer for overtime. It’s the American offense. The Japanese have declining stamina. It’s a one-time play and it’s gonna take brain and skills. Hiruma _thrives_ in these conditions. His chest is tight with possibility as his brain racks through different possibilities.

His eyes land on Shin, who limps his way to the bench, grimacing, and discounts him entirely. That’s when he finds Agon in the crowd, dreads splayed over the shoulders as his lip curls in a snarl when talking to the hulking Gaou.

‘Oi, fuckin’ dreads,’ calls Hiruma, catching his attention almost immediately. ‘C’mere.’ The rest of the team huddled around him shift uneasily. Even now, Agon’s towering physique and bloodlust are not something to be ignored, and Hiruma is the only one aside from the Shinryuuji Nagas' coach to use it to his advantage.

‘Fuck off,’ says Agon, an automatic reflex, but he’s standing beside Hiruma, close enough that Hiruma can see the energy shifting in his eyes and the tenseness of his muscles as he’s ready to fight once more. The _Japanese_ have declining stamina. Agon, however, Hiruma knows, does not.

Hiruma turns to the rest of the team. ‘No breaks. You have all the audio codes shoved in your fuckin’ skulls?’

The team nods, and only Agon shifts, restless. He didn’t attend any of their team practices and knows nothing, but Agon can _read_ Hiruma like no one else can. That much Hiruma’s figured from their near-perfect Criss-Cross.

The time counts down. The American’s team huddle is beginning to break. Quickly, Hiruma lays it out for them. ‘We’re going for the Devil’s Ballista, using dreads right over here.’ Shin shoots his head up as he rests on the bench, meeting Agon’s glance, and nods. Agon lands his gaze back on Hiruma. Hiruma is grinning, outlandishly wide and terrifying – knowing Agon is listening intently to the plan and observing his body’s movements. The attention is nostalgic and invigorating. He lets it energize him.

‘So,’ he says, straightening, and the team follows. ‘What’re we gonna do?’

This time they all join in – even Marco and Kid and Agon, ‘ _KILL THEM_!’

-

One week after the World Football Juniors, Hiruma encounters Agon in a convenience store trying to buy sugarless gum: ‘I said go _find_ some, you fuck.’

The cashier looks one careless glance away from bursting into tears and almost sprints to the backroom of the store. Hiruma whistles low as if impressed, ‘could be a running back.’ Agon half-turns towards him, his snarl ever-present on his face. The wig of his dreadlocks are gone and his skull is covered with dark fuzz that makes him seem younger than eighteen.

‘A bit far from your trash of a high school,’ he says. Hiruma shrugs lazily, two bottles of pop in his hand and a bag of beef jerky, ‘had to come if you’re buying my gum for me.’

Agon scowls, his face getting progressively more angry, but Hiruma finds it more amusing than scary. He's sure Agon knows this - Agon’s always known him. Even back in middle school, they could read each other more easily than any other and perhaps that was friendship, Hiruma didn’t quite know. He didn’t quite care either. After the Shinryuuji mess, Hiruma found it hard to care what Agon meant in the grand scheme of things except an annoying prick.

‘What do you want?’ snaps Agon after a moment, still eyeing him with that mix of wariness, disgust, and ease of familiarity. Something that Hiruma easily reciprocates. The nice thing about Agon is that one always knew their place with him. Always below, never above, and only equal if gifted by the gods with athletic genius.

‘Let’s talk about the future,’ says Hiruma, voice lilting, drawing out the syllables real slow, reading Agon as he reads him. The moment is interrupted when the cashier sprints back to the counter with eight packages of sugarless gum. Without pausing, Hiruma places his beef jerky and pop on to the counter beside Agon. ‘It’s on him,’ he smiles, eyes glinting, teeth sharp and white in the fluorescent light of the store. The cashier seems equally terrified of Hiruma as Agon.

‘Fucking prick,’ says Agon under his breath but pays anyway.

They’re off to a fantastic start.

-

Hiruma leads them out of the shopping district towards the suburban areas. The houses are white and stout – two stories high and shoved against each other like packed turf – white splices on green grass and the occasional shrub and tree.

Agon spends three quarters of their walk romancing a girl on his phone. Hiruma drinks deep of his pop and listens with half an ear just in case there is something incriminating being said. It takes three minutes of sitting on a bench in front of an empty baseball pitch before Agon finally hangs up and stares at Hiruma.

‘You gonna switch sports halfway through?’ he snorts, ‘I know you fucking suck, but that’s a new low, even for shit like you.’

Hiruma props his ankle on his knee and finishes his drink before replying. ‘You still want that three million?’

Agon’s face smoothes out – curiosity and seriousness melding together. ‘You asking me to go to another fuckin’ tournament?’

Agon’s bag from the convenience store is between them on the bench. Hiruma rifles for a pack of gum and pops one in his mouth, chewing noisily. Just as predicted, Agon’s mouth is curling in some parody of silent laughter.

‘You want to go at it again. You want to try this World Juniors bullshit next year. You’re fucking crazy.’ Hiruma cocks an eyebrow as he catches sight of Agon’s face – a half-grin and almost something like pride in his face. ‘You ambitious fuckin’ shit.’

‘World Juniors?’ sneers Hiruma, ‘Aim higher, you short-sighted plebeian.’

‘Haa?’ drawls Agon, previous expression erased with annoyance, ‘where else is a piece of shit like you gonna go?’

Hiruma takes pity on him and explains, short and sweet, all bullshit cut for the prize that he knows Agon craves. ‘After hosting us this year, they created a four year World Championship, fuckin’ dreads. International shit – stronger team, stronger opponents, world-wide recognition, and money.’ His grin turns lethal and confident, ‘and it’s next year in Italy. The fucking inauguration. All eyes on us.’

He plays Agon easily, knows that Agon is very much aware of how he follows Hiruma, whether it’s into dark alleys, train compartments, or a football field. The fact of the matter is not even the Shinryuuji Nagas' coach has as much of a command over Agon as Hiruma does.

‘I’m not going to miss this and wait four years,’ says Hiruma with lazy assurance in his eyes. ‘First university, then Rice Bowl, then the Championship.’

Agon licks his mouth, eyes contemplative and steady. Hiruma feels himself be weighed, taken apart and split in half – pros and cons. He knows the pros heavily outweigh ‘having to work with trash’ because if Agon truly stuck to that philosophy, he would never have played with the Shinryuuji Nagas, with his brother, with Hiruma.

‘You're fucking insane,’ says Agon, voice low and rough, and Hiruma pulls out a Glock 17 from his waistband, cocking it and placing it right against the man’s temple.

He’s cackling, anticipation slipping back into his bloodstream, the empty hollow space he had feared wouldn’t be filled after the World Juniors. The World Juniors is just the first pinnacle of the rest of them. There’s more for Hiruma, he soon realizes, more to find, climb, and conquer. The fun of building and succeeding and beating the unbeatable odds. The World Championships. The NFL. The fucking Super Bowl. ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

-

Two weeks after the World Football Juniors, an extremely loud and enthusiastic Kurita visits Hiruma’s hotel room with a terrified Unsui in tow: ‘Hiruma, guess what? We’re both going to Enma University!’

Hiruma reassembles his Browning 9mm on his desk as Kurita sits comfortably on his bed and Unsui looks like he’s going to shrink into himself as he gingerly takes a seat beside his friend. ‘Their football team is absolute shit,’ he says, and Kurita frowns.

‘Not with us,’ he says confidently, ‘right, Unsui-kun?’ Unsui takes a few trembling breaths and nods, his back straightening. ‘See? I’m a lineman, and Unsui-kun is really good at everything – quarterback, cornerback, running back.’

Sliding the safety on, Hiruma observes his handiwork, gaze sliding from the trigger to Kurita’s cheery face, confidence and hope radiating off his entire frame.

‘So, what’re you doing here, fuckin’ fatty?’ he says, testing him. He eyes Agon’s twin brother – he has the same straight nose, the pointed chin, the square jaw, but there is something soft about his eyes and his mouth that makes them so easy to differentiate for Hiruma. He finds he prefers Agon better – cruel and crazy and devastatingly invested in Hiruma’s existence, much to the man’s delight.

Unsui looks over at Kurita with a small smile and Kurita nods. ‘We’re just here to tell you that Enma University’s team is going to the Rice Bowl.’

‘Are you now?’ drawls Hiruma, lips stretched wide, tasting the challenge. Kurita – used to his maniacal expressions – doesn’t mind him, but Unsui cowers, just a little bit. Hiruma latches on to the weakness with precision. ‘Doesn’t seem like your quarterback, cornerback and running back is confident enough to walk by himself much less play football without his little brother.’

Unsui’s eyes go wide and Kurita is getting ready to berate Hiruma for his incessant bullying, but Unsui beats him to it.: ‘I don’t need my brother.’ There’s a pause where Unsui takes a deep breath. ‘we’ll – we’ll beat you, and we’re gonna beat him too – ’ His voice trails off in a tremble, but the air between them presses down anyway with the gravity of Unsui’s statement.

‘Alright, we’ll see about that,’ says Hiruma, feeling calm, the creeping worry for Kurita being squashed by Unsui’s presence. Now, if only the old man could get some teammates who could talk back to a devil from hell like Hiruma. Kurita beams, knowing approval from his friend, and makes the gestures to leave.

Before they make it to the door, Kurita turns, ‘but, Hiruma, what university are you going to?’

‘Tokyo U,’ replies Hiruma offhandedly, ignoring their choked gasps, and turns on his laptop. What he really means is that he still has no fucking clue.

-

Hiruma is standing in front of the metal fence of the American military base eight blocks away from his hotel room when Agon finds him, no chick nor bag from the convenience store hanging off his arm. His hair is getting longer – not enough for dreads, but it will get there by the time they start university.

‘You getting all contemplative before graduation, you shit?’ he mocks as if he doesn’t know why Hiruma is watching the practice match between the soldiers.

Hiruma snorts, ‘you’re the one who found me. You missin’ me after three years, fuckin’ asshole?’ It’s a half-hearted comeback as he goes over the list of pros and cons in his head. It doesn’t matter if he applies to university late or early – he’ll get in whether it’s backhanded or legitimate. It’s a matter of choosing which one now and graduation looms – a self-imposed deadline.

‘Four years, prick. Can’t even count anymore? How you gonna get into university?’ It’s the most roundabout yet obvious lead to the conversation Agon wants to have with him and Hiruma wants to laugh at how they circle each other even over the most inane things.

‘Which one are you gonna bless with your god-impulse?’ sneers Hiruma in turn. He’s curious, and he can’t deny it’s going to influence his decision. Perhaps Agon’s arrogance rubs off him, because he knows, more certainly than anything else, that they tip scales, they toss odds, they’re the queens of their respective football chess games.

Instead of answering, Agon makes a derisive noise in the back of his throat as the linemen fall on their backs and the quarterback gets sacked on the red team. ‘Pathetic. Quarterback had enough time to pass.’

Hiruma silently agrees. He needed three seconds, and this one had five. He turns away from the match and leans his back against the fence, eyes on Agon. Queens of the match, the demons of the football field, the powerhouse of Kantou. It’s not a sudden realization, just something he’s always wanted but never had the opportunity. Just this once, before the clusterfuck of four years ago, Hiruma wants to indulge.

‘You’re gonna be on my team.’

Agon glances at him. ‘Fuck off.’

It’s as much of an agreement Hiruma is going to get.

-

Three weeks after the World Football Juniors, the third-years graduate all throughout the country.

There is a shower of celebration bullets from Hiruma’s Colt M4 carbine as the principal finishes his closing speech to the graduates and the people scatter to take pictures and exchange last minute contact information. The first years are there too and they surround Kurita with presents of food and congratulations.

For Hiruma, Sena and Monta get him fake Las Vegas casino chips bought from some rip-off gift shop in the shopping district, but he hardly minds. Both Yukimitsu and Mamori hand him a red and silver striped silk tie, and Musashi and Kurita pool their money to buy him the fanciest football they can find in the city. The rest of the football team are there as well, gift-less but still full of congratulations.

Hiruma reciprocates with various semi-automatics, all his favourite brands with rubber bullets in order to decrease their horror. He’s not going to take credit for when Yukimitsu and Mamori go home to giftcards that will cover their future first year textbooks, nor for the brand-new tackling equipment reinforced by steel sitting in Kurita’s backyard, or the pile of cash beside a football magazine sitting on Musashi’s bed.

Kurita suggests they visit Shinryuuji and Hiruma agrees with another spray of bullets, dragging the rest of them along. They lose Sena, Mamori, and Monta once they pass Oujou, and the Huh Huh brothers disappear to visit Hakushu. Even Musashi ducks out of the journey when he grabs a train transfer to meet the kickers of Bandou.

The journey to Shinryuuji is only for Kurita and himself anyway. He kicks them away with a sneer as usual, but they smile back and wave too enthusiastically for Hiruma’s liking. God fucking forbid they actually trust and like him. People who didn’t fear him eventually got under his skin, and sometimes he feels like there are too many of them already there – Kurita, Musashi, Mamori, the fucking football team, Agon.

The graduation ceremony seems to have ended once they arrive and the Shinryuuji football team are all gathered, speaking and exchanging gifts. They find Kurita and Hiruma easily as they wade through the crowd of graduates. Agon has short dreads around his face, reminiscent of his middle school days minus the baby face. Unsui is still bald, and he grins widely to wave at Kurita.

Wrapping him up in conversation, Kurita laughs and exchanges congratulations with the team while Agon corners Hiruma to the side of the group. His face is expectant but it’s not for gifts or congratulations.

‘You get lost on the way to your own grad, piece of shit?’ he says, the sharp opening words that Hiruma has come to expect. What he doesn’t expect is for Agon to dig into his pocket and pull out a packet of sugarless gum. He tosses it and Hiruma catches it easily. ‘Consolation prize for missing it.’

‘Didn’t know you knew I graduated, fuckin’ dreads,’ drawls Hiruma, covering his surprise smoothly by popping a piece of gum in his mouth and chewing loudly. ‘Gotta stop stalking me.’

Predictably, Agon snarls, making the appropriate motions to punch him in the mouth though he’s never, ever gone through with it. Hiruma falls comfortably in the routine, fingering the packet of gum with half a mind. It’s been four years. Forgiveness isn’t Hiruma’s style. Forgetfulness even less.

He opens his mouth to distract the man, but they’re interrupted with the appearance of Ikkyu, loud and peppy, talking fast: ‘congratulations, Agon-kun! Thank you for making me the team captain, I swear I won’t let you down, you were a brilliant captain and I’m going to live up to it, I swear – ah, hello, Hiruma-san, congratulations on you too – ’

Hiruma blows a bubble of gum and pops it as Agon’s mouth twitches and he grabs the kid in a headlock. ‘Shut up and scram, Ikkyu, we’re having a conversation.’

Ikkyu freezes and Hiruma snorts. ‘Were we? Thought you were gonna smash my face in, fuckin’ dreads.’

Nevertheless, Agon lets him down gently, and Ikkyu flees with a bow and fluorescent-bright grin. Agon’s eyes trail the kid until he starts congratulating the rest of the football team. Hiruma flicks his gaze back to Agon.

‘You want him too,’ he says, slow, ‘what was that you once said? The perfect team would be twenty of you and Ikkyu.’ Hiruma won’t disagree that Ikkyu is a brilliant addition – if two years delayed, but he wonders if Agon will undermine him as quarterback by forming a team loyal to him. It’s a thought better pursued away from here.

He notices that Agon doesn’t immediately reply. Instead, he chases the sight of Agon tracing the edges of his teeth with the tip of his tongue, eyes still on the rest of the team. Finally: ‘pick somewhere good, you fuck. Doesn’t fucking matter if they’re the best or worst.’

_Because we’ll rise to the top no matter what._

Hiruma cackles, flips the packet of gum into the air and catches it with a loud snap. ‘We’re going to have try-outs in two weeks, fuckin’ dreads.’

-

Four weeks after the World Football Juniors, Hiruma announces the university he is attending through an obnoxiously edited video sent to every cell phone number of every football team that has gone against Deimon: ‘Saikyoudai University, you fucks. Try outs next Wednesday at noon.’

He finds Agon at a popular café on a Sunday in the shopping district by Shinryuuji with two girls on his arm and his charming smile as he asks them, as subtly as possible, for a threesome.

Hiruma won’t deny that he perhaps disrupts the meeting with more flair than required for the girls run screaming out onto the streets as Hiruma props his micro-Uzi submachine gun on his shoulder and smiles down at Agon. ‘Did you get my text, fuckin’ dreads?’

‘You a jealous fuckin’ girlfriend, filth?’ he snarls back, but his frame is easy and his eyes are laughing. The anticipation is back, sweeping down his spine, as he pictures the plays he can make with Agon beside him, the skill sets he can develop, the goddamn _possibilities_ \- the fact that, for once, Hiruma doesn’t have to claw his way to the top, raising those around him, and can compete with the best on his own because he _is_ one of them. It’s heady and addicting and feels like the prize he’s always been chasing.

He takes a seat across from Agon and slides the micro-Uzi into his bag as he pulls out his laptop. ‘We have the pick of the trash, you fuck,’ says Hiruma, playing to the man’s humour, and Agon curls his lip when he notices.

‘This better be the best fuckin’ team, prick,’ accedes Agon, eyeing him with a steady gaze. Hiruma blows a bubble and lets it pop before noisily chomping the gum back into his mouth.

‘Cream of the crop, dreads,’ he says and his voice is low and serious, and it’s been so long since he’s been able to say something so outright and truthful to Agon without a wall of snark between them. Four fucking years. Forgive and forget – that Hiruma can’t do. But… take advantage of the situation? Twist it to his ends? Bring together a powerhouse to destroy the university football league with one of the strongest beside him? Here, Hiruma _thrives_.

-

Five weeks after the World Football Juniors, the informal try-outs bring together Banba, Yamato and Taka, along with future prospects such as Akaba, Juumonji, and Ikkyu. Various other lessers turn up as well and Hiruma is almost uncertain with what to do when he is presented with more opportunities for a team than he has ever had in the last three years.

He introduces himself as captain without telling Agon, but the man doesn’t seem to disagree as he lounges on the bench, talking on the phone as he watches Hiruma hoist a Berretta RX4 over his shoulder and shoot at them through various drills.

Afterwards, Hiruma has a team in less than five hours, his spreadsheet covering all the bases needed for a competent football team plus some extras. Agon dozes on half the bench, legs dragging across the ground as Hiruma seats himself beside the man’s head, typing data into his laptop.

The sun is setting by the time Hiruma has found enough blackmail material on the Board of Education for Saikyoudai in order to get extra funding and improved equipment. He also sends a short e-mail to Mamori with an application to be football club manager attached. Best to cover all the competent bases immediately.

He stretches, glancing down at Agon, who is still splayed over the bench, dreadlocks spread over the wood, not quite reaching the shoulders. ‘Oi,’ says Hiruma, and that’s all it takes for Agon’s eyes flicker open, his face expressionless and his eyes without any malice. It puts Hiruma off-kilter – the familiarity between them built on cruelty and sneers is lost and has been slipping away in the past weeks.

Maybe he doesn’t mind – to have Agon follow him without question once more. It’s nostalgic and easy. Agon listens to a select few people – his brother, his coach, and Hiruma, and Hiruma knows how to play it to his advantage.

Lately, he’s been wondering if it’s the same on Agon’s end. If Hiruma plays to Agon’s tune, though he doubts Agon even realizes he’s different from three years ago. Softer, easier – still batshit insane and violent beyond any right of any teenager, but approachable now. Fucking _reasonable_ all of a sudden. Enough for Hiruma to seek him out and talk to him.

‘Fuckin’ dreads,’ he says without reason; face blank, jaw chewing on the now tasteless gum.

Agon doesn’t move, doesn’t react in any discernible way. After a moment, he huffs out a breath, eyebrows raised. ‘You can’t captain for shit, filth.’

‘Neither can you,’ points out Hiruma, ‘so I made you co-captain.’

Agon sits up, stretching his arms, and his shirt rides up enough to see the glimpse of a tattoo that Hiruma knows wasn’t there during middle school. He idly wonders when he got it.

‘You’re really fucking stupid,’ says Agon, sitting beside him, closer than the last time they were on a bench. There’s no plastic bag of sugarless between them now. Hiruma closes his laptop and puts it back in his bag.

‘You gonna undermine my authority or something, prick?’ he grins, ‘kick me off the team so you can get the glory?’

The sun wavers against the horizon, and Hiruma watches Agon’s face, reading in advance, readying himself for that inevitable truth that will tell Hiruma that life is cyclical and Agon will burn him once more, as always, forever.

Instead, Agon is facing the sunset, the sharp profile of his cheek and chin, and his voice is low and careful: ‘it’d be fuckin’ trash team without the biggest piece of trash.’

With that, he stands and walks away, flicking out his phone and dialing a number and Hiruma hears him romance some nameless, faceless girl he will never know, and he can’t help but laugh as Agon disappears around the corner. Laughs himself sick. Until the sun is gone and god, of course, Agon, would be the one to fuck everything up – ruins the rightful equilibrium of cruelty and malice between them.

He counts down on his fingers – five weeks after the World Football Juniors, he is stuck with a team that will dominate the university league and an asshole who basically fucking pledged his shitty, iron-strong loyalty to him.

-

Six weeks after the World Football Juniors, the Saikyoudai University football team have their first game on the first day of school against themselves.

Admittedly, it is not an official game – only minor civil unrest in a nation that Hiruma intends to rule with an iron fist as he has ruled Deimon. The established football team – seniors and sophomores – laugh at the lessers that accompany Hiruma when they enter into the locker rooms intended for them.

‘A game then,’ challenges Hiruma, all cocky confidence and slashed-open grin, ‘you twenty against my eleven. If you win, we disappear. If you lose, I get captain and revamp this piece of shit team. We’re going to the top, you fucks.’

They take him up because age gives them confidence that Hiruma has otherwise never known. It doesn’t matter why they accept, only that they do, and Agon, who had skipped half the morning, comes over smelling faintly of perfume and sneers at the older ones. ‘ _Haa_? This is our first game, fuckin’ captain?’

‘Civil unrest,’ drawls Hiruma, pulling over shoulder pads and a jersey with number 56 on the back. The number means nothing to him, but he notices how Agon pauses, eyes lingering on the space between his shoulders.

‘You’ve been demoted,’ remarks Agon finally, pulling his own jersey of 43 over his torso. Hiruma doesn’t bother to reply – something in him is still off-kilter around Agon, as if he can’t look directly into him or he'll see something that will flip a relationship he has taken great pains to preserve in all its harsh, rough wording. Instead, he watches as Banba, Taka and Yamato finish dressing and converse potential plans with Agon and himself as the rest of the team gets ready.

The fact of the matter is that no matter how good the seniors and sophomores are, they have demons and angels on their side – blessings of God and the Devil slamming touchdown after touchdown against the older students. Hiruma and Agon perfect the Criss-Cross on their second try, and Banba is the indomitable defense while Yamato destroys tackles and Taka runs down the yards after receiving every pass sent to him.

The final score is 56 to 3,  the opposing side scoring an errant field goal before Agon could sack the kicker. Any holes in their defence and offence are quickly corrected, only solidifying the knowledge that the players Hiruma calls himself captain of are the cream of the fucking high school crop.

They are a destructive power in under half an hour without a real practice behind them. For their sake, after the second half, the seniors lose with grace and Hiruma sprays the field with M16 bullets from his SIG 556 pressed against his shoulder pad in victory.

Back in the newly vacated locker room, Hiruma adds in the data of the seniors and sophomores of the previous Saikyoudai football team and takes them into consideration. He is going to build a team, but he is going to do it with the best because he fucking _deserves_ it, after years of dragging up blackmailed substitutes into games that only seemed to result in losses until, of course, he had met Eyeshield 21’s successor – tiny, frail, but _deadly fast_.

Hiruma does not make predictions as much as premonitions, and he takes care with the way he tosses out names for moves that he knows will change the odds, plays on the skills still hidden within people, but standing in the Saikyoudai football locker room with Banba, Yamato, Taka, and _Agon_ at his back, he can say it – ‘we’re going to the Rice Bowl, you fucks.’

Yamato laughs, easily and freely, and Taka and Banba nod, small smiles on their faces. Hiruma turns, finds Agon holding two jerseys and throws one at his face. ‘If we’re going to the fuckin’ Rice Bowl, try not to at least _look_ like trash,’ he snarls.

The jersey on his face has the number 1 on it and Hiruma can’t help but cackle at the number 2 on the jersey in Agon’s hands. ‘And you need to stop checking me out, fuckin’ dreads,’ he crows, high off a victory and the sheer roads of possibility that open up before him.

‘You piece of shit,’ snaps Agon, throwing down his padding into the locker. Wisely, the rest of the team exit quickly as the demons’ fight threatens to rise. Hiruma waits, leaning against the lockers as Agon turns, spine straight, mouth curled downwards in a snarl, stalking over towards him.

The only time Agon has ever enacted violence against him is in a football field, and Hiruma is certain that today is not the day this will change. He’s grinning, holding the jersey in front of his chest as some flimsy defence as Agon hounds him, palms slamming on the lockers on either side of Hiruma’s shoulders, boxing him in.

‘You piece of shit,’ says Agon, still fierce, voice low and face close. Hiruma shrugs noncommittally, breath ghosting over Agon’s cheek, mouth smoothing out from slashed-open grin to something like a flat line.

‘I don’t give a shit what you think about me,’ says Hiruma but the lie sells bitterly on his tongue, ‘as long as you follow the fuckin’ plays and get us to the top.’

Agon’s face shutters into utter blankness, eyes flickering quickly over him. Hiruma feels read, exposed, flayed open underneath someone too fucking close to him, both literally and something else – some way he doesn’t want to contemplate, not now.

‘Wear the fucking jersey,’ says Agon, ‘and I will, you fucking filth.’ He steps back, gives Hiruma the breathing space he desperately needs after a confrontation that goes too long and digs too deep for his liking. ‘It’s the first fuckin’ game of this team and we didn’t crush them absolutely. Can’t expect everything from a prick leading the plays, I guess.’

‘And you better follow them to the goddamn tee, asshole,’ snarls Hiruma as Agon turns away from him. They change back into their clothes in stiff silence and Hiruma stalks home, feeling irrationally annoyed and out-of-place.

-

One week after university starts, the roster for the university league football is released and the Saikyoudai University Phoenixes are lined up to play the Juujika University Bishops in two days’ time.

Hiruma drives the team into the dirt. He owns up to his alias as Commander from Hell and the MAGPUL Masada in his hands prevents any backtalk as they push each other further and further. Hiruma can feel each and every muscle in his body scream in protest as he works Taka in the spring rain. Taka is prissy, Teikoku-bred first string, and Hiruma almost doesn’t know what to do when the man slips over and over in the mud. The thing, Hiruma soon realizes, is that whenever confronted with a flaw or weakness, the genius adapts much, much faster than Monta or Taki or Yukimitsu ever had.

They end it near dinner time and the football team leave muddy tracks over the locker room floor before disappearing back into the rain. Hiruma sits on the bench, dripping, his skin feeling foreign to him. The thing about the Deimon Devil Bats was that the only ace they had was bone-breaking effort. Something created and forged in the fire of prior failures, of the taste of victory, of the ache and pain and blessing of success during the March of Hell towards Las Vegas.

It’s new – this thing that Hiruma realizes is creation. He creates, and forms, and sharpens, and _perfects_. But what does a captain do with near-perfection? It slides uncomfortably over his skin, like the cooling rain dripping from his hair, down his face, into the towel between his hands.

Agon marches last into the locker room after the others have left. He catches sight of Hiruma and ignores him, stripping efficiently out of his uniform and hanging it before sliding over a shirt and hoodie. Hiruma’s skin prickles.

‘Too tired from your own fuckin’ practice to go home, you pathetic shit?’ says Agon with mocking laughter in his voice. He shoulders his bag, watching Hiruma drip all over the goddamn floor like a drowned cat. Hiruma feels a rush of annoyance. He stands, quickly changing out of the uniform and back into his clothes. Agon is still standing there, mouth quirked on one side as if he knows something too complex for Hiruma. In the realms of genius – beyond where hard-working trash like Hiruma can reach.

‘You’re the one who dragged yourself in here last, fuckin’ dreads,’ retorts Hiruma, facing the man, a condescending grin smeared over his mouth, teeth glinting in the light.

‘You think I’m slacking, you fucking shit?’ says Agon, temper spiking, and this is familiar, this is good. Hiruma leans back against the locker, slipping a hand into his bag to finger the safety of his Taurus PT99, taunting Agon as he had always done – before this whole Saikyoudai clusterfuck.

‘Don’t see any changes in your shit of a physique,’ remarks Hiruma, voice all casual and offhand as if he’s not tempting a fist to his face. Agon is all predator and anger, wrapped in the tension of his muscles and the way he boxes Hiruma one more time against the locker, mouth curling.

‘I’ll fuckin’ kill you if you ever doubt me again,’ he says, voice hard and edged with something like a promise. Hiruma’s smile vanishes as Agon speaks without that wall of snark, that defensive streak of insults between them. It’s a truth that lies itself bare and Hiruma has never dealt well with open-faced emotion like this.

‘Fuck off, dreads,’ snaps Hiruma, sober and serious, but he makes no move to push him off. Doesn’t dare risk touching him. Something is so very fucking different here and he is not going to pinpoint yet. There are too many variables and statistics to take into consideration first without the fucking obstacle of honesty suddenly appearing between them.

Agon clenches his jaw but pushes off the locker, stepping back to stand, both arms at his side as he reads Hiruma like a goddamn novel. In turn, Hiruma’s eyes track the tension thrumming over Agon’s shoulders, the uncertainty in the downturn of his mouth, the straight spine of conviction despite it all.

Hiruma has some calculations to do before the game. He says as much before he leaves.

-

The second week after university starts, the Phoenixes start the season by crushing the Bishops 24 to 0 and Hiruma makes himself a home in the political science library with the help of his much beloved Taurus PT99. It’s almost a comfortable set up until Agon stalks him to the back, chewing gum obscenely loud, with a bag full of books on mechanical engineering, snapping: ‘not good enough, fuckface.’

Hiruma flicks the handgun’s safety on and off as he watches his laptop play the first Enma University match Mamori had scouted and filmed while he was busy taping up cell phone cameras around the Board of Directors’ homes. ‘The opponents or us, fuckin’ dreads?’ drawls Hiruma, watching Unsui toss the ball to the running back – ah, Ishimaru, isn’t it? – and gain 12 yards.

Agon crashes in to the chair next to him and watches his brother call out four huts before using a long pass. ‘Both. The Championship isn’t filled with fuckin’ pansies.’

‘You want to up the training?’ and Hiruma cackles, ‘doesn’t that cut into your pussy-chasing?’

Agon looks at him, face turning into a cocky smile, ‘now who’s the stalker, prick?’

Hiruma meets his gaze head-on, never one to back down from an asshole’s challenge, but he can only guess where Agon is going with this. This is as close to companionship they’ve gotten – minus the middle school years of blood, blackmail, and backtalk.

‘Need to keep track of the fuckin’ geniuses on this team,’ he replies easily, ‘lucky for you, the other two fuck each other.’ He resumes watching the Enma match. Kurita easily crushes the opponent’s defensive line. Good. He’d have to watch Musashi’s match himself since Mamori would be studying for midterms.

Agon trains his eyes back on the match with mild interest as he speaks: ‘Haa? That the kind of shit trash like you get off on?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ snorts Hiruma, and the match ends in a close victory for Enma of 17 to 14. They had found a decent kicker. He closes the window and resumes reading about the Japanese government's policies on extradition.

‘Practice tonight till six,’ says Agon.

Hiruma doesn’t bother with looking up from his screen: ‘You’re the _co_ -captain, asshole.’

‘Shut the fuck up.’ With that, Agon pulls out a physics textbook and settles in beside him to study. He’s not going to say he’s figured out why Agon is like this – all softened edges and crazy leveled with reason and an intent focus on Hiruma himself, but if there’s one thing Hiruma has decided is that he’s gonna play with it – use it for what it’s worth.

-

Three weeks after university starts, the Saikyoudai Phoenixes finally face their first challenge in the form of a practice match organized by Hiruma himself with Oujou University – half new generation, half Golden Generation.

The match ends with a tie and goes into overtime. Hiruma is sweating, panting, exhausted, and _loving it_. This is the proof he wants – that geniuses have weaknesses, can improve, can push themselves, that hard work can be pressed in those that are already at the pinnacle.

Finally, _finally_ , they are challenged – and it is Hiruma and Agon’s deadly Dragonfly play that gets them the touchdown they need as Yamato tears through the defense with grace from god-given athletic ability and _desperation_ – the screaming, burning urge to _win_.

Even Taka steps up, and Agon is already there – having tasted the sourness of defeat once before and knowing how to use himself to destroy the opponent. Banba’s shadow – big enough to remind Hiruma of Kurita – looms comfortably over him as they rip open Oujou and make the final push through.

‘Brilliant,’ says Oujou’s quarterback, third year and Golden Generation, when he catches Hiruma after the match. Hiruma tilts his head back and curves his mouth in an arrogant sneer.

‘Of course. We’re going to the Rice Bowl.’

The quarterback seems taken aback from the confidence that emanates from a mere first year student, but he laughs anyway, ‘we’ll meet you there, then.’

‘Bring it,’ challenges Hiruma, and the man nods, grinning, offering to shake his hand. The grasp is firm and the shake brief and certain. Hiruma can’t wait for them to improve. This is the challenge he craves. The win he wants – the one that comes from blood and sweat and perseverance. The fun of the game.

‘So that’s university league, huh?’ says Yamato, dragging a hand down his sweating face, laughter caught in his voice. ‘Man, this is going to be fun, right, Taka?’

Taka runs a hand through his hair. ‘More,’ he says finally. ‘We need to get better.’ His voice is somber and clear. Hiruma grins to himself as he takes off his shin guards, tossing them into the locker. The conversation drifts to plays and practices and it’s achingly familiar but wholly new and he’s going to have to meet Mamori for a new strategy code because they’re going to the goddamn fucking Championships this year, no questions asked.

Agon lingers behind, intent on speaking with him, and this time Hiruma goes over to his side of the locker room, intent on not being boxed again by the other.

‘Better, fuckin’ dreads?’ he says, and so what if the asshole’s opinion is something to consider and take into account for Hiruma? He’s co-captain for a goddamn reason.

Agon slides on his jacket, cell phone conspicuously absent from his frame as it has been for the last week. ‘That last pass was sloppy, filth,’ he snaps with no particular malice, ‘if you wanna get to the fucking Championships, better be able to keep up with a fucking Dragonfly play at least.’

Hiruma feels his insides about to burst from laughter. ‘Private practice sessions? Shit, just ask me out on a date properly, fuckin’ dreads.’

Agon’s eyes go comically wide and Hiruma can’t help the cackling that escapes him and something falls into place between them that shifts Hiruma right-side up, that off-kilter, foreign-skin feeling dissipating into the warm locker room because, in the back of his head, he’s been reading Agon too long and too well to really let something like this escape him.

‘Fuck off,’ snarls Agon, shouldering past him and out of the room. It feels good being the one watching the other stalk off in annoyance this time, remarks Hiruma.

-

Four weeks after university starts, Musashi’s team also advances with the help of Kid, Tetsuma, and Gaou, but is utterly crushed by Oujou in the second game, putting Hiruma in a rightfully irritable mood. However, Enma advances steadily and it’s a small balm for the wound. The Phoenixes, of course, continue their winning streak as Hiruma, Agon, and Mamori collaborate on tactics and practice schedules for the team.

Twice a week, Hiruma indulges in practice scrimmages and works with Agon, fine-tuning and advancing each different strategy, whether it’s the Criss-Cross, the Dragonfly, or the Ballista – all perfected ace-cards that can be adapted and modified with the genius of Hiruma during pinches.

It is after one of these whenTaka approaches Hiruma and says, ‘I want to learn the Devil Backfire.’

Hiruma understands the reasoning behind it – it’s a brilliant move and a receiver’s ace that comes from a combination of trust, hard-work, and body memory. No other receiver can do it except Monta, because it took months of repetition and – ‘that’s three months of hard work you’re talking about, pretty boy.’

Taka purses his mouth but nods. ‘One day, we’ll have to play the best of the best.’ He stares at Hiruma, all somber seriousness, ‘I want to beat them.’

It’s exactly what Hiruma wants to hears and they plan out times out of their day to start the grueling practice that Hiruma has planned. He knows Monta’s skill and hard work, but there are weaknesses in everyone and Hiruma excels at finding them in his opponents.

It’s when Taka leaves to change out of his uniform that Agon, tossing a football between his hands, approaches Hiruma. ‘Now you’re just being a whore,’ he says, smiling sickly sweet, but Hiruma pays him no mind as he sits on a bench, typing at his laptop.

‘Go train Yamato, then,’ he replies, ‘and we can have a big foursome just for you, fuckin’ dreads.’

‘You just really want to get screwed, don’t you, filth?’ drawls Agon, refusing to be taunted as he sits down beside him.

‘Better do it now than get fucked during a match,’ says Hiruma as he scouts empty parks through his cell phone surveillance system – the Saikyoudai field was too small for a Hail Mary pass. Agon is silent as he watches the screen flickers from one street to another, snorting when he sees the camera view outside his apartment. Hiruma glances at him: ‘You know it’s there.’

‘Is it useful?’ He doesn’t sound curious, but Hiruma knows better.

‘Haven’t brought home a girl in a while. Losing your touch, fuckin’ dreads?’ he teases, easy, good, because Hiruma _knows_ Agon, and is here for the reaction rather than the truth. Agon straightens, the football in his lap as his eyes keep trained on the screen.

‘Got something better to do,’ he says. It catches Hiruma off-guard – this slight admittance to football being more fun than manipulation and sex and whatever it was that Agon got off. He can’t say he didn’t see it coming, but honesty has never been a strong point between them. At least not before these past few weeks.

They sit in silence as Hiruma narrows it down to five fields and then two and finally chooses one – empty, grassy, and wide, which was what mattered. Tucking back the laptop into his bag, Hiruma stands to head back to the locker room in order to change out of his football clothes, that is until Agon catches his wrist – palm very much warm and rough against HIruma’s skin.

Hiruma meets Agon’s eyes and raises his brows expectantly. They’re at a stand-still – reading each other, raising each other up to be judged, quantified, compartmentalized into comfortable sections that are mostly on the side of nostalgia rather than something new. Rather see each other as friends-out-of-some-twisted-benefit like in middle school than _this_ – whatever this is.

‘You best make time for passing _and_ scrimmaging, asshole,’ says Agon finally, releasing his grip. Hiruma laughs and leaves. By the time he’s done changing and ready to go home, Agon still isn’t in the locker room. When Hiruma leaves, he catches sight of the man doing side-step runs on the field as the sun goes down.

-

Five weeks after university starts, Shuuei Medical College defeats Enma and advances, reducing the number of university teams from 20 to 12 – the Rice Bowl quickly approaching after the summer break. Saikyoudai is still in the running – their playbooks covered in tactics that bring down any and every team that should come to fight them on the football field - transforming into the underdogs that no one saw coming.

Hiruma has his summer split between studying, practicing, and researching. The spreadsheet of all those that will come to fight them is a sprawling mass of data and author’s notes – analyses and presumptions made on the possible hidden trump cards not yet revealed this early in the game.

Taka improves with rapidity that Hiruma has already calculated. They practice the various runs of a receiver and attempt the Devil Backfire dozens upon dozens of times until Taka gets a feel for it. By the end of the summer, Hiruma estimates that he will be able to use it in a match, and now only worries about the rest of the team.

In usual Hiruma fashion, he gets them to train in the Himalayas that summer. The flight is paid for by the Board of Directors and other various people in positions in power who do stupid things and get caught. The mountain air is clear and fresh, an almost spring-like chill when they gather at the base of the mountain Hiruma intends them to climb.

It pleases Hiruma that no one on his team bats an eyelash at the complete reversal of environment and starts their jog – similar to the Death March except at an incline, with higher altitude, and filled with stubborn, determined geniuses who will find the shortcut even if it kills them. Hiruma knows there’s no shortcut but lets them lie to themselves any way as people gifted with skill are wont to do.

At night, Banba proves to be an excellent cook over a fire and the rest of the team sets up tents and bedrolls. They eat, exhausted, but still attempt conversation. Hiruma hears the resentment in their voices easily - accusing him for pushing them this hard, and ignores it by writing down observations with a tired, trembling hand into his notebook. It’s Yamato that stems any of the dissension amongst the team: ‘you think we can beat Oujou without this?’ Grumbling assent. A methodical but effective pep talk follows. More vocal assent. Finally: clean up and rest.

Agon catches him in his tent where he’s scribbling down the last notes of the night: ‘you’re fucking shaking.’

Hiruma is too tired to hide himself away from Agon, whose gaze is all too quick and precise. He sighs, meeting the other’s gaze, ‘the fuck do you want, dreads?’

He looks almost uncomfortable being there. Hiruma’s tent is a solo, as is Agon’s and Mamori’s – a privilege earned through a combination of intimidation and hierarchy. Still, Hiruma moves aside and lets the other duck in and sit cross-legged across from him, silent as always.

‘You gone mute on me?’ snaps Hiruma, wanting to sleep as soon as he’s done with the notebook. Not even bothering to look at Agon as he finishes up his writing. After tucking the notebook under his sleeping bag, he realizes it’s the first time Agon has ever done anything this harsh and brutal. That repetitive training in bone-breaking conditions is not something soft-skinned geniuses are meant to do.

He’s never done the Death March, nor the Seibu’s version of it in the ranch in America, nor the training on Mount Fuji like Oujou. Fucker was probably feeling out of place, laughs Hiruma to himself. It certainly improves his mood – ‘this too hard for you, huh?’

Agon scowls, ‘your shit training doesn’t even fucking hurt.’ They look at each other, until Hiruma is ready to lie down and sleep, company be damned He is stopped by Agon awkwardly gesturing to Hiruma’s trembling fingers. ‘You obviously can’t take it, filth.’

Hiruma rolls his eyes, ‘it’s just some fuckin’ fatigue, dreads, no need to get all worried.’

The disgusted sound Agon makes in the back of his throat is a delight. ‘You’re this fucking team’s captain, you collapse, this shit team loses it, alright?’ as if this is excuse enough to push aside that Kongo Agon, much to Hiruma’s delight ever since he’s figured it out, has a goddamn crush on his football captain.

He rolls the words over his tongue before shutting his mouth altogether. Slowly, Hiruma leans forward, gets in Agon’s space, his grin that cruel, sharp-toothed devil’s smile that he knows must tempt Agon in some way because he has one of his own.

Agon is frozen, tense, with Hiruma close enough to breathe soft puffs of warm air over his cheeks. Hiruma has no intention of doing anything, just wants to test boundaries, how far one can go with a crazy genius in one’s bed, but when Agon moves, it’s a hand on his shoulder to push him gently and firmly away. ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he says, voice rough and quiet, ‘go the fuck to sleep.’

Hiruma lets the push tip him over until he ends up sprawled over his sleeping bag, shirt riding up for a slice of skin, but Agon’s eyes are focused on his own and what they read on each other is simply a short time of denial for the finale. Not yet, huh, fuckin’ dreads? Fine. Hiruma’s always liked the side-games before the boss fights.

-

Twelve weeks after university starts, the Saikyoudai Phoenixes come down from the Himalayas with new-found strength, perfected skills, hidden aces, and destroy the opponents to reach the finals in order to qualify for the Rice Bowl.

No one had seen it coming – especially not those with eyes on Oujou University and Teikoku University as the reigning champions of the Kantou and Kansai regions respectively. To say the credit falls heavily on Hiruma Yoichi, Commander from Hell, the Devil’s Right Hand, is not that much of an exaggeration.

The last match is Oujou University, all Golden Generation hype following them, and the underdogs of a university that no one had heard of until Hiruma ascended on it from the pits of hell. Agon sneers at the opponents, his confidence spreading throughout the team as they take their places on the football field.

Hiruma stares at the backs of the linemen, glancing to the side to see Mamori write down the opponents’ positions, and he can feel it – Agon’s eyes on him, reading his body, the way his fingers twitch, the shift of weight from one leg to another.

It’s a Criss-Cross, says the tilt of Hiruma’s chin, the shift of gravity to his left leg, the six huts he calls and the nod to Agon. In a split-second, Oujou’s finest are in a mess as Agon and Hiruma move down the yards, Banba holding strong, Taka slamming his shoulders into opponents to make way, and Yamato crushing all those in his path.

Agon scores the first touchdown. Thirty seven minutes later, he scores the last. The cameras shift from Oujou to Saikyoudai. The final score reads 56 to 21. The Rice Bowl is in sight.

They are the powerhouse the university leagues have waited for – trumping the trump cards, combining god-given athletic genius with perseverance, systematically utilizing psychological and physical warfare to rise to the top of the game.

The Rice Bowl is a week before Christmas. Hiruma sees Kurita, Musashi, Unsui, the rest of their respective football teams in the stands as they take in the congratulatory applause from the spectators. Agon stands beside him, as does the team that gathers around them both, cheery, confident, licking their chops for a taste of Kansai blood of the Teikoku University Caesars.

Once his team disperses, Kurita embraces him tightly, grinning in pride: ‘you made it, Hiruma!’ Hiruma elbows him in the gut and gets dropped to the ground, scowling.

‘I haven’t even stepped into the Stadium for the Rice Bowl, fuckin’ fatty, congratulate me then,’ and Kurita shrugs, still cheery, and its infectious, drips into his bloodstream until he’s cackling, showers of bullets that go on in sporadic bursts for the hour it takes for the stands to clear and everyone to decide on Korean barbeque at the restaurant down the block.

Afterwards, feeling full, the night late, and knowing university doesn’t wait for a bunch of punkass footballers, Hiruma walks back to his hotel room at one in the morning, feeling Monday already setting in. He ends up at the fence of the military base and stares at the darkened bunkers and empty field.

When Agon walks out from the other end of the street with a beer in his hand, it’s been ten minutes, and they stand side by side in silence. They haven’t touched since the night in the Himalayas, because it’s not time. Not for Hiruma anyway. Football, school, and success have always come first, and he’s not going to concede to an arrogant asshole like Agon that romantic overtures have never been a subject of any particular interest, thus his experience is nearing zero.

Agon breaks the silence first: ‘three weeks till the Rice Bowl, asshole.’ His voice doesn’t even slur from the beer.

Hiruma hums in agreement, ‘the altitude effect has probably worn off. We’ll have to start wearing masks.’

It had worked for Deimon – a temporary doping effect that had bolstered morale and stamina. But, Hiruma would have to try for something else – this was the university league, and required university level strategies. That were probably best left to think about at not close to two in the morning on Monday, he adds privately.

‘After this, it’s the Championships.’ Agon turns and leans his back against the fence. The streetlights shine over his face, goggle-less with the dreads long enough to pool around his shoulders. The autumn chill seeps over Hiruma, makes a shiver run down his spine, but he holds Agon’s gaze steadily.

‘Lots of chicks in Italy, fuckin’ dreads,’ says Hiruma, voice casual, but Agon doesn’t act out. Just shrugs – ‘shit, you’re annoying when you’re tired,’ – and begins to walk away. Involuntarily, Hiruma catches Agon’s forearm in his palm and can feel the furnace-like heat that emanates from him. Metabolic processes of geniuses or something.

‘What?’ asks Agon, almost irritated now, but Hiruma reads him better. Apprehensive. He lets go of the arm and grins, the light catching the sharp edges of his teeth.

‘Practice tomorrow. I have a new tactic I want to try out.’

Agon snorts and keeps walking. Hiruma heads back to his hotel room. His hand burns. The countdown begins.

-

Fifteen weeks after university starts, the Rice Bowl begins with sold-out seats, clustered cameras, the Teikoku Caesars and the Saikyoudai Phoenixes facing each other off, masks still on the underdogs' faces. Once the coin toss begins, Agon orders the team to take off their masks and a cheer goes up from the team as they take in their first unhindered breath after three weeks.

Saikyoudai take offence. The Teikoku Caesars, while well-versed in the movements of Taka and Yamato, do not react well to a new and improved Banba, Agon, and the rest coming up to equal levels of stamina, skill, and intelligence.

Hiruma leads them to a closely-won victory, as is expected, for the Teikoku Caesars are formidable in their own right. The final score is 38 to 35 with their kicker getting a victorious field goal in the last 45 seconds. The other touchdowns are various improvisations of trump cards – a Ballista with Yamato, a Golden Dragonfly with a newly agile Taka, and the Devil Backfire transforming a Hail Devil pass into instant points.

The taste of hard-earned success spills sweetly down his throat, and he cackles out his joy with the repetitive firing of bullets into the sky as Saikyoudai – the representative from Kantou – earn a seat at the table of champions amongst the very first to crush Teikoku University. The no-name, underdog university with a sub-par team only last year comes out as the new conqueror. It is exactly how Hiruma dreamed it would be and he doesn’t decline any enthusiastic suggestions to celebrate.

Kurita and Musashi pay for his meal as they indulge in sushi, the restaurant taken over by a mix of old high school footballers and new. The old Deimon Devil Bats seat themselves in a haphazard fashion amongst the Oujou and Shuuei’s Takami and Yukimitsu, as well as high school Seibu’s Riku and Takekura Construction's Gaou, Kid, and Tetsuma. Marco and Kisaragi show up, and the Bandou Spider boys, as well as the Poseidon’s Mizumachi and Kakei appear with a mix of Shinryuuji high schoolers and graduates. It’s a raucous celebration and Hiruma swells with it – this is it, this is fun, this is football.

The celebration ends late. Musashi ducks out early, and Kurita rushes home to avoid scolding from his father. The rest of them scatter amongst the shopping district the restaurant is located in – laughing and catching up. Takami congratulates him privately before he leaves, a glint in his eye as if he can’t wait to challenge Hiruma on his own terms the following football season. The feeling is very much mutual.

Eventually, it’s just him and Agon standing in the street, hands tucked in their pockets. Agon tosses him some gum and pops a piece in his mouth as well.

‘You got somewhere to be, fuckin’ dreads?’ asks Hiruma after blowing an obnoxious pink bubble and letting it pop.

Agon runs a hand through his dreads and shrugs. ‘Home.’ It’s curt and clear. The word hangs between them, and Hiruma sees the way Agon tilts his torso towards him, shoulders a straight line of tension, eyes on him. It’s an invitation. Finally, thinks Hiruma. He’s waited really fucking long for this.

They walk with conversation between them – hypothesis on who could be on the American side, the different countries that would qualify for the championships, who to snatch up for Japan, the like. There is banter, easy and nostalgic between them, and sharp remarks meant to sting unless the other can toss one more off. Hiruma can live with this. This is also it, this is also fun.

The streets run out of cars and pedestrians and eventually they’re at the edge where suburb meets high-rises. Agon’s apartment is on the seventh floor of a eleven floor building, two blocks away from the train, and four stations away from Saikyoudai.

Before they even enter the building, Hiruma stops, feeling wary. He’s not going to forget he’s playing with crazy and comfortable Agon, who probably gets through sex like he does everything else – naturally as if god has aready blessed him with knowledge of it.

Instead, he grins his slashed-open smile, all intimidation and maniacal, and Agon snorts when he catches sight of it. Instead of entering the building, he stalks Hiruma until the man’s back is against the glass door that pulls open to get inside.

Boxing him in with rough football hands pressed against the cold glass, he peers down at Hiruma, who refuses to back down. Instead, Hiruma blows a bubble – big and ostentatious – before letting it pop loudly and licking it back into his mouth, as if declaring a challenge.

‘Dumb shit,’ says Agon, voice low but grin wide, and Hiruma shrugs, still smiling, heartbeat ratcheted upwards until it’s thundering in his throat.

‘You gonna get on with it, fuckin’ dreads, or has your dry spell made you forget everything?’ taunts Hiruma, and his long fingers curl around Agon’s shoulders, dig sharply into the fabric to leave marks on the skin underneath. Hiruma is all pseudo-confidence, and Agon can probably read it in the tilt of his chin, the flick of his tongue over his lips. Agon rolls his eyes, ‘annoying shit,’ and doesn’t kiss him.

Instead, his mouth works over HIruma’s neck, licking a long, warm stripe upwards. He nips at Hiruma’s jaw line, leaving red marks, and tilts his head back. Hiruma's skull hits the glass behind him with a loud thump, but he's paying more attention on what Agon intends to do.

‘Fuckin’ devil ears,’ Agon murmurs over the skin of his cheek, and Hiruma’s fingers tighten as Agon’s teeth catches on one of his earrings and _tugs_. A flare of heat shoots down his spine and he shivers, making Agon huff out a laugh against his neck. ‘Fuckin’ virgin, aren’t you?’

‘Who gives a fuck?’ snarls Hiruma, but his voice is too breathy to make it an effective retort.

‘Shit,’ says Agon, and he hitches his hips against Hiruma’s, the heat of his cock underneath his cargo pants evident.

‘God _damn_ , hard already, fuckin’ dreads?’ cackles Hiruma, though he’s not doing any better as Agon’s mouth is back on his ear, tugging and then sucking marks down his neck, nipping right over his bobbing Adam’s apple. ‘Been that – _shit_ – long?’

Agon is evidently too busy to reply but he decides to shut Hiruma up by biting down on his bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth. There’s a moment where Hiruma’s brain goes blank and the first thought he has is ‘my first fucking kiss was goddamn Kongo Agon, resident slut’ and after that it’s all white noise as he tries to move his mouth to meet Agon.

It’s a sloppy, wet affair, and Hiruma has only half a mind of what the fuck he’s doing until Agon pulls away, frowning. ‘You fucking suck at this.’ Hiruma ignores him and sucks Agon’s top lip into his mouth, curling his tongue under the man’s front teeth. The choked off moan is worth it.

After that, Hiruma gets a grasp on the entire kissing ordeal and doesn’t mind that Agon is trying to clean out his tonsils because Agon’s cock is right up against his own and if he keeps rolling his hips like that, Hiruma’s going to fucking come like a fourteen year old boy in his jeans.

One of Agon’s hands are on the side of his neck as he licks open Hiruma’s mouth, and the other hand is right around Hiruma’s thigh, hitched over Agon’s waist so they can push against each other every time. Hiruma makes a noise – something stuck between satisfaction and desire – when Agon pulls away, mouth wet and there’s a trail of saliva between his bottom lip and Hiruma’s. Without pause, Hiruma shoves up against the other at how hot the sight is, the friction on his cock getting better and better as Agon meets him for each dirty grind.

‘Agon?’ asks Unsui, voice loud and discordant. Whipcord fast, Agon is turning around, hands off Hiruma entirely as he faces his brother. If there’s one thing to never do, thinks Hiruma, it’s to make any action seem shameful – a tidbit of advice that he’s learned from years of blackmail. If one can own up to it, than it has no leverage. Casually, he steps beside Agon, hair dishevelled, mouth bitten red and wet, a flush on his cheeks, and Agon’s not looking any better, to be honest.

‘Hey there, Hiruma-san,’ says Unsui, awkward and careful. He’s holding Agon’s jacket and goggles in his arm and offers them up to his brother. ‘You forgot these at the restaurant.’

Agon takes it without a word, and Unsui quickly apologizes and says goodbye, disappearing down the street in a hurry. If Hiruma remembers correctly, the Kongo household isn’t too far from here as he watches Unsui’s retreating back.

‘Well, that was fun, dreads,’ drawls Hiruma, as Agon unlocks the glass door with the key in his pocket.

Agon glances at him, mouth quirked in a smile. ‘Try saying my name, _You-i-chi_ ,’ he says, voice low and slow, ‘I want to hear it when I fuck you.’

Hiruma sneers at him, ‘the Championships, _Agon_.’

They look at each other for a few seconds too long. Hiruma reads Agon’s easy way he holds himself, the soft curve of his mouth, the loose tension in his hands, the tilt of his torso towards Hiruma himself. He reads fucking affection from a fucking psychopath. It makes him laugh, because Agon reads the same.

-

Nineteen weeks after university starts, Mamori, Agon, Hiruma, and the rest decide on the final roster for the Japan National Football Team to lead into the inaugural IFAF Senior World Championships held in Italy after the most grueling try-out Hiruma can muster.

It brings pride to Hiruma when the three of them agree on Kurita as a lineman and Musashi as a kicker. The high schoolers still in third and second year are envious, but the graduates line up – Takami, Yukimitsu, Kid, Tetsuma, Gaou, the Oujou graduates, the Teikoku graduates, the odd few talents picked out here and there.

The flight is booked and they leave Japan after three hurried weeks of training and preparation. If Hiruma is sleep-deprived, he only lets it show as he dozes lightly in the hours that it takes to cross an ocean. If anyone remarks that Agon and Hiruma take to each other easily – seated beside each other, speaking and eating together, no one is willing to be vocal about it – especially not Unsui or Mamori.

Italy blooms beneath them – humidity, heat, skin, and promise of a challenge. The beaches are long and populated, and the tourist hotels rise high into the sky. Hiruma scopes out the stadium once they’ve dropped off their luggage. Mamori disappears with Kurita to go pastry hunting and the rest of the team also scatters.

Agon accompanies him as they walk the perimeter of the stadium before entering it. It’s huge – bigger than the one in Japan. He had misjudged the enthusiasm of football in Europe. The stands span upwards, ready to be filled to the brim with a screaming audience, and already Hiruma feels anticipation rush into his blood, make his skin tingle with the cheers he will hear as they conquer.

Alone, in an empty stadium, he feels Agon press his palm against the small of his back and laugh long and loud. ‘Four games, ten days, one championship, huh?’

‘And it’s all ours,’ announces Hiruma without a doubt in his mind.

-

Twenty weeks after university starts, Japan takes the Championship from USA hands without question. It’s a close, brutal, brilliant game – 24 to 21, Musashi’s 60 Yard Magnum a glorious ending to a test of skill and strength and agility.

They’re all panting, dripping with sweat, exhausted, bone-tired, yet somehow the adrenaline rushes through them and they hold up the Championship Cup high as the cameras flash and reporters speak of a ‘surprising turn of events’. The SWC is swept up by Japan – the country no one saw coming.

The teams shake hands, compliment and congratulate each other, and drift off for the award ceremony, and, finally, the celebrations. It takes six hours after the game ends. It’s one of the best six hours of Hiruma’s life.

It’s a proof of success, the final evidence, the second pinnacle after the World Football Juniors. The third pinnacle is the NFL. The fourth and final – the Superbowl. At this rate, Hiruma can do it, he can fucking do _anything_. The confidence rushes and rages in him and the sweet, sweet taste of success is too much to not share.

The team drags themselves back to the hotel at three in the morning after a rowdy night of drinking and feasting, and Hiruma foots the bill (whether through dishonest means or not is hardly the problem at this point) until he’s opening the door to his hotel room and Agon is standing there, looking out the window, dressed in a shirt and jeans, before looking back at him, grinning.

‘Ready to scream my name, Youichi-kun?’ drawls Agon, and Hiruma is already slipping off his shirt, grinning, ‘only if you can make me, Agon-chan.’

In seconds, Agon is licking a stripe up Hiruma’s neck, his hands right on the man’s waist as he pushes him backwards on to the bed, not caring in the least that Hiruma smells like the remnants of sweat and dirt and the smog of Italy clinging to his skin.

Hiruma makes sure to pull the hem of Agon’s shirt upwards until it’s off and throws it to the side. Agon hisses when the other digs his nails deep into the flesh of his shoulders but bucks his hips down to grind filthily against the body underneath. Hiruma figures it’s the years of repressed hormones that makes him want to come like this – underneath Agon, friction between their respective jeans until he blows his load in his shorts.

Agon, however, kisses the thought away as his hands find the zipper of Hiruma’s jeans and has him shimmying out of them entirely. Naked and pale, Hiruma cackles as Agon pauses to look over him, soaking in the sight and reading him – the want in the twitch of his cock, the desire in the arch of his back, the pooling need to come as Hiruma’s own fingers fumble over Agon’s zipper.

Finally, they’re naked and Hiruma has no fucking clue what to do except that he wants to feel Agon’s cock in his hand and break him apart like this. Grasping the flushed, hot dick, he jerks Agon like he jerks himself off – long and slow so each of his callouses catch on the ridge of his cockhead.

Agon groans, burying his face into Hiruma’s neck, and Hiruma takes the opportunity to bite the lobe of his ear, tug at it the way Agon does it. It earns him another muffled groan, and Agon raises his head, pupils blown, watching Hiruma’s face. ‘Fucking crazy,’ he says and it sounds like a compliment, so Hiruma rewards him by sucking Agon’s bottom lip into his mouth, slipping his tongue past the initial ridge of teeth.

He doesn’t expect Agon to roll them over with Hiruma on top, straddling Agon, knees pressed into the bed on either side of the man’s hips, cocks brushing and pleasure sparking right at the base of his spine. Hiruma moans into Agon’s mouth as he feels the familiar hands settle around his hips to bring them down, grinding his cock against Agon’s.

It’s enough to have Hiruma pulling back, gasping for air as he rocks against Agon’s thick length, the friction hot and addicting. ‘You gonna come like this?’ pants out Agon, eyes on him, on the half-lidded gaze of Hiruma as he finds his hips moving without his control, just wanting more, over and over again.

‘That a fucking problem?’ says Hiruma, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice, and the ridge of his cockhead catches the tip of Agon’s dick, making him keen as they press again, with each sinuous twist of his hips.

‘Fuck no,’ replies Agon, grinning, ‘you fuckin’ virgin.’ Hiruma snorts, curls his long fingers around both their dicks to bring them together from base to tip, ‘you’re way too close to call me that.’

Agon groans out his agreement as Hiruma jerks them off – the heat of his cock against Agon’s, the way the precome leaks over it, makes each thrust more slick than the rest, the rising pleasure of the friction on his dick as his abdomen tightens with impending orgasm.

‘Youichi,’ gasps Agon, and the way he says Hiruma’s name – breathy and desperate – makes Hiruma curve his spine down, mouth at Agon’s collarbone as he bucks into his own grip. ‘ _Fuck_ – tighter,’ says Agon in to his sweat-slick hair, and Hiruma follows through, his fingers clenching tighter, the cord of muscle appearing in his arm as fucks his fist faster.

Hiruma is so fucking close he can barely stand it. He bucks against the heat of Agon’s cock over and over, and almost sags in relief when Agon’s calloused thumb begins to rub the leaking precome over both their heads, pushing back the foreskin to get to every fucking nerve-ending in their cocks. ‘Agon, you – fu- _uck_ – ’ and the plea for more descends into a long moan.

Finally, finally, the tension snaps when Agon lifts his head, meets him for a chaste kiss before ghosting past his cheek and bites down onto Hiruma’s ear. Hiruma arches, his cock coming hard, leaving ropes of warm semen over Agon’s dick and stomach, and he rides out the last pulses of it by letting go and having Agon milk the rest of his come out of him.

Hiruma sags against Agon’s chest, and watches as Agon gathers his come and jerks himself off, harsh and rough, tugging desperately. It’s hot and perfect – the slick of his white come between Agon’s fingers and his cock, and – after half a dozen strokes – Agon’s stomach clenches and he blows his load over his hand, panting and groaning.

Without a sound, Hiruma goes down, batting away Agon’s hand away – ‘what are you – _shit_ ’ – and milks the rest of the come from Agon’s dick with half a dozen more strokes.

Raising his head, he meets Agon’s gaze, all lazy, sated smile, ‘good, Agon-chan?’

‘Fuckin’ perfect, Youichi-kun,’ he replies easily, grabbing onto Hiruma’s shoulder and dragging him up to lie beside him. Out of sheer curiosity, Hiruma contemplates Agon’s come on his fingers and flicks his tongue to taste it. While it’s not great, it’s definitely worth the try to hear Agon make a sound like he’s choking.

They clean up with the tissues in the box on the bedside table before pulling the covers over top. Agon insists on big-spooning with as much snark he can muster without saying those words – ‘your tiny fucking ass is gonna freeze, bastard’ – and Hiruma just gets comfortable.

If Agon laces their fingers fifteen minutes later when he thinks Hiruma is asleep, Hiruma isn’t gonna mention it. Nor the soft scrape of teeth over the first knob of his spine like Agon is gonna mark him – all possessive, crazy genius trying to leave a tattoo on the psychopathic demon in bed.

He reads Agon – all interlaced fingers, soft puffs of warm air against his back, the lazy grace of a predator’s muscles at ease, the insistence to keep close and keep warm right up against Hiruma – and what he finds isn’t much of a surprise, considering it’s reciprocated at this point.

Twenty eight weeks after Musashi, Kurita and him split; twenty six weeks after the World Football Juniors; twenty weeks after university starts; and seven hours after winning the Senior World Championships, Hiruma realizes that he’s probably just a little bit in love with Kongo fuckin’ Agon and he couldn’t give less of a fuck.

-

**Author's Note:**

> The IFAF SWC is real and Japan _did_ win twice – 1999 and 2003. :D also, all handguns and assault rifles listed are _gorgeous_ imo.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I do hope you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> x-posted to [tumblr](http://alighterwithlove.tumblr.com/post/42814997249/timeline-overhaul-nc-17-eyeshield-21)


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